


The Gift

by shealynn88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Consensual, Dom Sam Winchester, Dom/sub, Drugged Sex, Hunter Dean Winchester, Hunter Sam Winchester, M/M, Multi, Sheriff Castiel Novak, Sub Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27340615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: Sam and Dean have just finished a case and Dean needs the relief that Sam taking control gives him.Neither of them expect the sheriff they just helped out to be at the BDSM club, but Sam is happy to share.This is when Sam takes over. Nothing is up to Dean, now. So he kneels, and he waits, and he breathes, and he remembers what his body feels like when it’s not a shield.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 67





	The Gift

Dean finishes the last stitch and presses his lips to Sam’s shoulder. “You’re all set,” he says, heaving a sigh and trying to roll the tension out of his shoulders. He keeps his head down, organizing the first aid kit for the inevitable next time.

“Dean,” Sam says quietly. 

Dean feels him shift on the bed and he continues to work, doesn’t want Sam to see how raw he is with those fresh-carved claw marks in his brother’s skin. The ones that say he didn’t do enough. _Again._

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says, and his voice is commanding.

Dean swallows. “What?” he asks flatly, looking up.

“Let me take care of it,” Sam says. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

His whole body tightens with the promise of it. It feels like another failure, how much he needs it. He shouldn’t _need_ it. Should never— 

“Dean!” Sam snaps, grabbing his hair and hauling him up, dragging him off the bed, breaking the downward spiral of his thoughts. “Knees,” Sam demands, and Dean obeys.

The tension begins to drain out of him and he slumps.

“Hey,” Sam reprimands. “You know what to do.”

Dean straightens. They’ve learned over the years. What works. From the first time, when his timid baby brother said, _let me take care of you_ , and sucked his dick, to now, when Sam—more confident, more sadistic, more commanding—demands that he pay attention to his body instead of his thoughts.

Head up, back straight, hands behind him, knees spread. It’s perfect. The pain—shoulder and knees, the effort in holding his body straight and his eyes forward—it all keeps him _here_. Grounded. Until Sam decides what to do. Because it’s up to him, now. The hunt has been on Dean’s shoulders—doing it right, making sure Sam was safe, John’s ghost reminding him of every past failure. It all weighs on him differently than it does Sam. Always has.

But this. This is when Sam takes over. Nothing is up to Dean, now. So he kneels, and he waits, and he breathes, and he remembers what his body feels like when it’s not a shield.

“We’re going out,” Sam tells him after a few minutes. “I’m going to take a shower, and you’re not going to move.”

“Yes, sir.” It’s what he called his father, and there are similarities—this is where he takes orders without question. But it’s relieved some of the pain of what’s come before, knowing he has power, that he can say no and Sam will let him go without question, without consequence. There’s no threat in it. Not unless Dean needs there to be. 

He hears the water running, concentrates on the feel of the floor, the slow ache in his back. The chafing of his jeans against knees and crotch.

He’s lulled by the time Sam comes back to him. Sam pulls his hair again, gentler this time, til his neck is stretched to its limit. His lips are soft and gentle. The approval there relaxes him further. “You seem much better,” Sam tells him. “But I’ll bring something in case you need it.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean whispers, and Sam lets him go.

“Get ready. Ten minutes.”

Dean goes through his paces with military precision. Shower. A thorough cleaning for anything that might happen later.

The aftershave Sam likes—Dean never wears it on a hunt. Leaves a little stubble, Sam likes the burn of it. Brushes his teeth. 

T-shirt and dark jeans. Boots.

Takes the thin strap of leather from the side pocket of his duffel and kneels again.

“Good,” Sam says, wrapping it around his throat and fastening it.

Sam is different. He’s different like this, taking charge, but he’s _been_ different. Been becoming something for a long time. Something darker and steadier. A force. It worried Dean at first. 

Now he counts on it.

* * *

The club is dark, red lights tucked into the wall. Sam grabs two of the ‘play’ bracelets. It won’t allow them to drink, but it’s clear that’s not the sort of oblivion Sam’s looking for tonight, and that’s what matters.

Sam grabs two seltzers before leading Dean to the back.

This isn’t the same kind of club as the front. It’s got some tables to one side, but the main room is separated into sections with benches and crosses, swings and a suspension rig. For people who like to be watched, it’s perfect, and plenty of others are enjoying the view. There are likely rooms in the back, too, but he doesn’t think they’ll make it there tonight.

Sam leads him to a table and sets down their drinks. “I brought this,” he says. The music is low here, there’s just the sound of flesh on flesh, moans, the sound of impact, a cry of pain. 

He sets the pill in Dean’s hand, and Dean nods. He doesn’t need it, he’s feeling calm already. But sometimes Sam likes him pliant, soft, and at these times, just these, Dean likes being what Sam wants.

He starts to put it in his mouth but Sam stops him. 

“If there was someone else tonight, would you want that?” He strokes Dean’s cheek gently and Dean shivers. “Could I let someone have you?”

Dean swallows, warmth rising and curling in his stomach. They’ve talked about it before, in a round about way. Because as much as he wants it, Dean can’t ever get the right words out. But Sam gets it. He should have known he did. “You want that?”

Sam shrugs. “If the right person comes along.”

“Then…” Dean takes a shaky breath. “Yes, sir.”

Sam hands him his seltzer and he swallows the pill.

* * *

The world goes hazy slowly. It’s not that strong, maybe a few whiskeys worth. He likes it. Likes how it heightens the feel of Sam’s fingers on his arm, guiding him to the corner. He has to be careful. He’s not allowed to be altered, here. Consent is taken very seriously. 

But Dean has given all the consent he wants to give. He just wants to be owned, now. Told what to do, and how, and let Sam worry about the who and the what, exactly. He trusts Sam with his life, and he trusts him with this, too. 

Sam leads him to a corner and helps him strip down. He’s naked except for the collar when Sam kisses him gently, tells him he’s perfect, then presses him to his knees.

Sam is still clothed. He unzips and pulls himself out—cock and balls, and then taps Dean on the cheek to get him to open wide.

They’ve been doing this...years. Maybe a decade that Dean’s been sucking Sam’s cock, but that silk slide is always something he relishes on his tongue, opens up to welcome. 

His brother is big. Really big. There’s no room for any other thought in his head as he holds his hands behind him just like Sam wants, and takes as much of that big cock as he can, working his tongue against the underside, hard and then gentle, and feels the satisfying grip of Sam’s fingers tight in his hair.

“Agents,” comes a familiar gravel low voice.

Dean’s hands rise up, he starts back, up—slow on his feet with the drugs in his system, but ready to fight anyhow. _Protect._

Sam pulls him forward easily, back over his cock, moves his head in a rhythm until he returns to it, then pets fingers through his hair when he relaxes again, fuzzy and full to the brim with sensation. 

Sam can handle it. Tonight, Sam can handle all of it. 

“-join you?” finishes that dark voice.

Before Dean knows what’s happening, Sam has pulled Dean off his cock gently, and he’s looking into intense blue eyes, catching a seductive smile. Then Sheriff Novak, who they’ve just left with three dead bodies and a handwave FBI explanation, swallows Sam’s cock and moans.

The sound reverberates through Dean’s whole body, he’s moaning with him, barely realizing it. Sam presses Dean in and he nuzzles into Sam’s balls with the insistent slide of Novak’s mouth against his cheek, and Dean falls into the rhythm of it, overwhelmed and desperately turned on. The sheriff slips back and to one side, and Sam guides Dean in again, until he’s touching the sheriff’s very soft, wet lips wrapped around one side of his brother’s dick. Sam holds him in place as he slides between their mouths, shoving impatiently, and Dean tries to use his tongue to help, ends up meeting Novak’s tongue in the middle, and then Sam slides back and they kiss, and it’s like lightning, everything hazy and lit up, like fog and the buzzing of cicadas and then Sam’s voice close in his ear, “Wanna watch him fuck you, baby, wanna see him inside you, want to have you after, all fucked open and begging…”

And Dean can’t begin to contain what that does, he’s going to come if Sam doesn’t stop. He tears himself away, “Please, can I…” It’s humiliating, _asking._ In front of someone who saw him before, when he was in control, when he was his own man and not Sam’s.

“Shhh…” Sam whispers, on his knees behind Dean, hand wrapped around his throat while Castiel mouths at his shoulder, sets teeth in and bites until Dean is whining, moaning, begging wordlessly. “You’re doing so well,” Sam says softly. “You can come now, we’ll use you up later. Won’t matter then, that’s all for me.”

Dean whines, overcome. He wants that. He gives himself over to Sam at his back, to Novak at his front, the sensation of teeth in shoulder, his pec, Sam saying, “Mark him up for me.”

It gets fuzzier from there. Lips and teeth and fingers all over him, Sam’s voice, calm and reassuring as he’s surrounded by warmth and sensation. At some point he’s bundled, moved, led and handled and then it’s all touch again, skin all over his skin, warmth and wet and he’s filled up, over and over, dark gravel voice and Sam’s calm reassurance, and he’s being so good, doing so well, looks so sweet, so right, they love using him like this, they love his pretty skin, his pretty hole, his pretty cock. He moans and keens, he mumbles, he’s floating, floating and everything feels distant and perfect, and he’s exactly where he needs to be, exactly what he _wants_ to be, and he’s vaguely proud to be this for his little brother who deserves the world and has him instead.

* * *

Dean wanders into the tiny kitchenette, pleasantly sore and still half asleep, and sees the sheriff at the sliver of countertop that houses the coffee pot. “You’re...still here,” he says, guarded.

The sheriff looks away, almost guilty. “I was looking for you so we could talk. I may have gotten...distracted.”

Novak hands him a mug, fixed just the way he’d had it at the station, and Dean wonders if the brightness in his cheeks might be a blush. Which is hilarious, knowing what little Dean knows of the night before. He’s fairly sure the sheriff wasn’t remotely shy or embarrassed when he was balls deep in Dean’s ass.

“Yeah, well. When we finish a case, Agent Page and I like to blow off some steam, so we weren’t really feeling talkative.”

Novak smiles a little. “Right.” He looks up, and those blue eyes are intense. Jesus, Dean had forgotten how intense they were. “It’s not really Page, is it? I mean, I’m rusty on pop culture, but Page and May? I have my own contacts at the FBI and they...don’t know you.”

Dean shifts minutely, looks over Novak and curses how loose that trench is—could be hiding anything under there. He knows, even from those fuzzy recollections, that the man is way more ripped than he looks.

“Don’t worry,” the sheriff says softly. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just...there were some really strange things about the case. I know you explained them away but...poison gas? Undetectable by anyone but the FBI? Bear attacks? In four homes? I’ve seen weird things, Dean. I think they add up to something more than that. And I think you and Sam know what that is.”

Dean juts out his chin, gesturing for him to keep going. He takes a slow, cautious sip of coffee, hoping to lull the sheriff into doing whatever he’s going to do.

“It’s Winchester, isn’t it?” Novak asks.

“What’s that?” Dean asks calmly, insides roiling. They don’t kill people. Never have. Sometimes they don’t even kill monsters anymore. Not if they’re living right. But he doesn’t know how the hell they’re going to clean up this mess. This man. This beautiful fucking man who’s too damn curious for his own good.

“You and Sam. I found an old BOLO with your face on it. Winchester. Wanted for murder. Something about cutting hearts out. I get the feeling that’s you...but you weren’t the ones doing the cutting. Am I right?”

“You have a lot of theories for eight in the morning, sheriff.”

“Call me Cas. I hope we’re on a first name basis.”

Dean feels a chill. This isn’t something he’s had to worry about before. The morning after. “Hey, don’t think last night makes me your bitch, there, buddy.”

Cas holds up his hand. “I know the scene, Dean. I’m not making assumptions.”

Dean nods, calms himself. “So what do you want to do with these theories of yours?”

“I just want to know what I’m dealing with. I want to know enough to keep people safe, to do some good when things are...outside the typical scope of the law.”

Dean nods again, takes a sip of coffee, then another. Buying time. 

They’ve trusted people before. Taught them. Showed them. Some of those people even survived. But no one has ever come to them like this. And Dean likes to think that he’s good at keeping business and pleasure separate, but he’s not sure if he’s thinking straight with thoughts of the guy’s dick still popping up uninvited.

“What do you want me to say?” Dean finally asks, probing.

“Tell me what really happened. What was that thing, and how did you get rid of it? What’s in those shotgun shells? What made you think this was something for people with your...expertise? How can I learn to identify these things? Stop them?”

Dean shakes his head, laughs softly. _Shit._ He really likes this guy. “Well, you’re asking the right questions, anyhow. Hang on.”

He pours another cup of coffee and brings it in to the bedroom where Sam is pretending to be asleep. Dean pulls the covers off unceremoniously and rolls his eyes when Sam blinks at him. “Stop eavesdropping and make yourself useful,” he says, shoving the coffee into Sam’s huge hand.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Sam protests as Dean walks away. “I was just...taking it easy.”

“Well, get out here and park your ass in a chair so you can fill in the nerdy stuff.”

Cas watches with a blank expression, and Dean smiles. This guy might be the real deal. 

“Have a seat,” Dean tells him, and pours more coffee before he sits down opposite. “We’re Hunters,” he says flatly. “All those things your parents told you weren’t real? That law enforcement scoffs at? All those monsters and ghouls and things that go bump in the night? We kill them. That’s why we were here, for the attacks—a witch raised something he couldn’t control, and we took care of it. And we’re headed to Nevada tomorrow for basically the same thing. Another monster. Another string of gruesome deaths and mystified police.”

Cas nods, brow furrowed. “So, how did you know what it was and how to defeat it?”

Dean leans back, sips his coffee and grins. “Practice, buddy. It’s all about the time in the trenches.”

“We have journals, tomes, friends who have studied these things alongside us,” Sam says from behind him.

Dean points back at his brother. “Nerds.”

“Yeah, well. Without lore, you won’t get very far. Every monster has a different M.O., a different weakness. If you go in thinking it’s a rougarou and it’s really a ghoul, you’re going to be in trouble.”

Dean looks over and grimaces. “What idiot would confuse a rougarou with a ghoul, Sam?”

“It’s an example, Dean. All I’m saying is, you know. Stay in touch. Be careful. We can help, but you have to be willing to call us.” Sam leans forward. “Because thinking you’re ready when you’re not will get you killed.”

Cas nods slowly and Dean sets his mug down on the table. “Scared yet?”

Cas looks at him, eyes narrowed. Considering. “I’d be a fool not to be. But I’m hopeful that this will help. Having another resource, another set of possibilities is very helpful. There have been many cases that we have not been able to resolve to my satisfaction.”

Dean grins. Cas is just _full_ of surprises.

He has other questions over the next hour. Smart questions, Dean has to admit, though he’d never say so. There’s a chance he won’t just get himself killed out there. Which is good, and Dean doesn’t think too hard about why that might be, when he’s always been an ‘easy come, easy go’ kinda guy.

When it’s finally time for Cas to go, he shakes Sam’s hand.

“I’d like to...see you again. Uh, socially,” he finally says awkwardly. Considering the confidence Dean vaguely remembers from the club, it’s odd. But, then, none of them are the same people they were in there.

Sam’s smile is a shadow of his ‘take charge’ smile—the one that belongs to Dean. “Yeah?” he says, hungry.

“Cool,” Dean says, doing his best to remain unaffected. “That would be good.”

Cas nods, flushing in the yellow lights of their by-the-hour room. “Then I guess I’ll see you...?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, for sure.” Sam touches his hip, a silent agreement.

Cas is to the door before Dean decides. “Hold up,” he says, and beacons Cas back. He comes easily, strides over like this is where he wants to be. Dean lifts his hand, not touching. Not yet. “Can I…?” he asks, leaning forward, down.

Cas nods, eyes already sliding shut.

Dean takes control, presses in and takes a little bit, just enough to let Cas know he’s more than what he saw the night before, and then he lets Cas push back, hungry. It feels good.

“Happy hunting, sheriff,” he murmurs finally.

Cas smiles, a quirk to one side of his mouth. “Happy hunting, Dean.” He turns to Sam, who is still barely touching Dean, something that is just a shadow of possessive—as if anyone in the room would forget how the whole thing works. “Sam?”

Sam steps forward and crowds him, can’t help it with how huge he is, and something like jealousy blossoms in Dean’s chest. Sam kisses the sheriff thoroughly, deeply, and Cas gives as good as he gets, and despite that tightness that feels like a threat, it is a beautiful thing to behold.

It feels like forever before they separate.

“I hope we see each other again,” Cas says as he opens the door, smile wide, mouth swollen.

Dean smiles back, tucking his hand into the small of Sam’s back as nonchalantly as he can. “I think we can make that happen. Call if you need us.”

Cas nods and the door closes, and Sam turns on him immediately, grabs his hair and wrenches his head back.

“You worried?” he asks softly.

Dean goes limp, soft, the sharp edge of uncertainty fades. “Not really.”

Sam smiles and lets go to stroke Dean’s hair. “Good.” He gives Dean one quick, thorough kiss, and then the moment is over and they’re just...them. Hunters. Saving people, hunting things. Dean takes a deep breath. 

“Chop, chop, Samantha,” he says, shouldering his duffel. “We’re burning daylight!”


End file.
